Not a Poem
by the Cheshire Cat
Summary: Six days late for Valentine, but who's fault was it? Does the summary even do the fic justice?


Something written to get my mind off the knowledge that the fate of my future comes in four days time. (Damn that's long.)   
  
**Warning: Yaoi-based, but not graphic.**   
  
**Title: The Poem**   
  
He tore the piece of paper, crumpling it and then tossing it aside; where it joined its brethren on the littered floor. Beer bottles, paper, food wrappers, clothing and the occasional newspaper lay foundation to the rapidly piling heap.   
  
He paused, head cradled in the crook of his arms, aquamarine eyes shut as the dull throbbing at the back of his head took hold of his sanity. Outside, the faint strains of a busy slump accompanied by the chug of the metro train filtered into the dimly-lit apartment.   
  
A hand fisted and then slammed down onto the table as the crown of fiery-red hair rose. Nimble left fingers groped around the table in blind purchase, ending its futile search whence it came into contact with the slim wooden pencil. Slowly, pale eyelids shuttered open as the greenish-blue orbs within came to view.   
  
His fingers worked almost mechanically, thoughts tangled far away in a realm of lost childish fantasies. Slowly the barely legible scrawl from before smoothed out into elegant cursive. The capitalised 'F's and 'Y's faintly reminiscent of some gothic Edwardian text of old.   
  
It was only when the sun's parting rays left his room a dark sanctuary did the scribbling stop. Eyes blinked into focus as the mind slowly reeled back into the cruel world of reality. He looked down at the piece of paper, hands already poise to tear the useless piece of poetry away when something in the uncertain darkness caught his eye.   
  
Yet tear away he did, but not to crumple the pale creme sheaf; instead to be folded into four sections before being slid in between the folds of a manila folder.   
  
*   
  
Paperwork from the Turks. The two words were not synonymous to one another. The Turks were known not for their commendable ability to deal with problems in black and white, but rather to deal it in terms of flesh and blood.   
  
They had protested at first, or he had protested. Claiming, as he so eloquently put it, "To deal with the Company trash." And not "Log it all down like some shit-faced accountant."   
  
He smiled. Typical of him to say so. And yet the very account of the Company's loose end in Sector three faced him in black and white. In barely legible scrawls like a petulant child forced to do his work.   
  
He laughed, flipping through the folder, freezing when something slipped out and fluttered to the floor. For a moment, it was discounted to be summons for bills unpaid. Hinting to him that he wanted a raise. But why a raise, when you earned enough to buy a villa by the end of four months?   
  
And thus, like any other curious soul, he unfolded it.   
  
And then, he began to read it.   
  
_**requiem for a temptress**   
  
You   
tease me in every way imaginable   
drive me insane with that careless laughter   
make my head throb with your near presence.   
  
You   
are definitely not my cause for living   
for you are nothing but a parasite that lives beneath my skin   
making me yearn and crave   
to have you close   
under, beneath of me.   
  
You   
have eyes of sapphire   
locks that shimmer in the waning sunlight like spun gold   
  
Forever clad in white   
Forever with that smirk on your face   
Forever watching me   
making my heard swirl in confusion, delight and pain.   
  
You   
are the tempress of the night   
taunting me in dreams of blue, gold and white   
refusing my salvation   
turning torture into delight.   
  
You   
just drive me   
fucking nuts._   
  
He blinked once, then again. His mind somehow slow to digest, disect and analyse the poetic piece. It was far from being Petrarchan. Far from Shakespearan. It spoke of mental torment... possibly sexual as well. Angst... confusion and hinted at the poet's sado-masochistic tendencies.   
  
His mind was quick to guess who had written. Yet it was slow to grasp the concept of why it was written. Had it been intended for him? Or for another? Slipped into the manila by accident? Possibly.   
  
Glancing back at the poem, it was unlikely. There were references to himself. Eyes of blue, like sapphire. Hair of gold...   
  
He pondered for a moment, fingers steepled in the classical visual projection of a man making a grave decision. Five minutes ticked by before he called for his assistant.   
  
"Send Reno up."   
  
*   
  
"You summoned sir." A statement, never a question. Rufus smirked, as he always did, and invited the flame-haired Turk to sit. Of which the latter did, with much caution that was second-nature to his being. The blonde picked up the folded paper in between index and middle finger, waiting for a reaction on the young Turk's face.   
  
No emotion, not even the barest flicker of alarm that registered in the mako-tinted eyes.   
  
"Sorry sir? You wish to have me investigate the origins of the letter?"   
  
"Hn."   
  
"Very well sir." Reno got up and leaned forward to take the slip of paper. Their eyes clashed again, this time the Turks eyebrow quirked upwards in question. Rufus retracted his hand. The brow rose higher.   
  
"Nevermind. You are dismissed." For brief moment, Reno merely stood there, watching Rufus with unhumoured aquamarine eyes. Then suddenly, he burst into laughter.   
  
Cold, bitter and hollow.   
  
"I would have thought the pretty boy at the helm, would at least have some brains. Figured I was wrong." And then he turned swiftly, making long-legged strides towards the door when he was yanked back by his ponytail.   
  
It was not the sharp tug that had his scalp screaming that shocked him, nor the sudden brain-melting kiss that Rufus was giving him. Out-of-place and inane, Reno had always been surprised by Rufus's agile swiftness. Completely unbefitting for someone who looked as though he spent his adolescent not training in weight rooms, but getting a pedicure.   
  
"You're six fucking days late for Valentine." Growled the blonde as he nipped at the Turk's lower lip. He groaned.   
  
"Which asshole was the one who sent me to Rocket Town to drag Palmer's lard-ass back to Midgar?" Another moan.   
  
"Wanker."   
  
"H-Hell yeah."   
  
  
  
  
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Gah. I have no idea how -that- overly-commercialised that got tangled into the story plot. *shudders* Comments, are always welcome.


End file.
